


For Dean

by RockSaltandCherryPie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comforting, Comforting!Sam, Episode: s10e14 The Executioner's Song, Gen, Holding Hands, M/M, broment, hurting!dean, moc!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:33:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3462836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltandCherryPie/pseuds/RockSaltandCherryPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Executioner's Song Sam comforts Dean :(</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Dean

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written in months because of my condition, hopefully I can get back in the knack of it without being in pain. (Yay for physio!)
> 
> Also, how's my pacing?  
> Enjoy :)

"Dean?" Sam knocks a few times on the heavy door that’s serving as a barrier between him and his older brother. There’s no answer. He doesn’t know if he should knock again, leave and come back later, or go in. He’s holding a steaming cup of herbal tea - something he _knows_ Dean will wrinkle his freckled nose at, but damned if he’s gonna let Dean go through all of these troubles on his own. Dean’s taken care of him enough; it was Sam’s turn to do the nurturing now. The roles were reversed and now it was his turn to worry and fuss, and god help anyone who would try to stop him.   
He decides to just go in, turning the knob slowly and carefully before peaking through the crack. He sees a bare leg sprawled out on the bed, bent at the knee. His lip twitches up in a smile when he pushes the door completely open and Dean’s face comes into view, crooked and squished up between his shoulder and the bed, his eyes closed and his breath coming out in slow, soft puffs.   
So he wasn’t kidding when he said he’d sleep for four days. It had been only one and a half but Dean hadn’t left his room, not even to eat. So Sam had been taking initiative.   
"Dean?" Sam clears his throat softly, holding the mug out in front of him. Dean stirs, waking out of sleep to raise his brows in response. He’s starfished on his stomach over the entire unmade-bed, a thin film of sweat coating his outstretched limbs and the back of his neck.   
"Dean, I… I brought you some tea. You should really drink it." He holds it out tentatively, getting a whiff of lemongrass-flavored steam.   
Dean’s eyes blink open. “Tea?” His voice is groggy, and raspy like he hasn’t used it in months. “That to go with the stale bread you made me yesterday?”  
Sam scoffs, cracking a smile and shaking his head a little at his brother. Dean pushes up on reluctant elbows and squints up at Sam.   
"That bread was not stale, you just waited too long to eat it." Sam sits on the bed where Dean has made a little room and extends the mug to Dean’s face.   
Questionably, Dean takes it from him and holds it to his nose. He smells it and then recoils. “Smells like piss.”  
Sam’s face sinks, though by now he’s used to Dean’s inadvertent aversion to anything remotely good for your body. “It’s lemongrass and eucalyptus. Just drink it.”  
Dean wrinkles his nose like Sam predicted and frowns, but he opens his mouth and takes in the teeniest sip imaginable. He shudders when the taste floods his tongue and decides to leave the mug on the headboard behind him. “Tastes like it, too.”  
Sam sighs. “Dean, I’m not just gonna let you shut yourself up in here forever.” He contemplates. He knows what Dean told him last week, and even though he isn’t sure whether he approves of it at the moment or not, he knows Dean meant what he said about focusing on helping other people. And Sam’s willing to do anything that holds the possibility of helping Dean. “You wanna do jobs, let’s do jobs. But you gotta get outta bed, man.”      
Dean’s curling his lips in listening, eyes focused but unfocused. Sam’s fairly certain he hears him, just not so certain he’s actually _listening_ to what he’s saying. Just as Sam opens his mouth to start to say something else, Dean chimes in.  
"I know, I know. Just… Not right now, okay?" His face softens, putting on an expression Sam’s unfamiliar with. Weak, defeated. Tired. It doesn’t suit his typically brawny shoot-first ask-questions-later older brother, the brother whose courage and fearlessness he’s looked up to his whole life. Sam’s heart gains weight at the sight of it. "Dean…"  
Dean squints, making his eyes gleam, but it’s forced, put on. _Gotta put on your game face, Sammy,_ a memory from Sam’s adolescence rings, Dean’s voice young and untainted. He’s been saying the same thing since he was too young to even know what it truly meant. Sam feels a stinging behind his eyes.   
"C’mere," Dean mumbles, shifting to one side of the mattress and settling back down onto the disheveled pillow. He pats the empty space next to him.  
Sam glares openly at it, confused, before eyeing Dean wearily.  
Dean snorts. “Lie down.”  
Okay, now Sam _knows_ Dean’s off his rocker. The last time Dean willingly asked Sam to share the small intimate space of a bed with him was… well, never. Even when they were kids and had no choice, it’d always be up for discussion with Dad. It almost hurts Sam that he’s asking now. It reminds him of when Dean was on his death bed all those years ago, before Dad gave his soul for him. He thinks Sam’s going to just give up on him, same as he did then when he stubbornly told Sam to take care of the Impala. He doesn’t know how many times he has to tell Dean he’s never, _ever_ giving up on him.   
The heavy thumping of Sam’s ten-ton heart stops him from thinking clearly as he settles down next to Dean.   
It’s nice. Quiet. Peaceful. Like their simultaneous breathing could be infinite, just for that moment. Like they could close their eyes and everything would just stay the way it is and be alright.   
They’ve shared a few intimate moments like this before, sharing a small safe space in an otherwise vast location; looking up at an endless sky or driving down a quiet, dark, broad highway in the middle of nowhere. Not that the bunker was comparable to a Nevada night by any means, but when Sam closes his eyes it feels like the same space he’s used to, the same space that provides him with overwhelming comfort and security.   
He feels Dean’s skin brush his hand where it’s laying gently open on the bed and his eyelids flicker up. Hesitant fingers spread over Sam’s palm, finding the gaps between his fingers and Sam spreads them in time for all ten to slot perfectly together, natural and easy. It’s the extra leap and it makes Sam’s stomach flutter with warmth and apprehension.   
Dean’s not sure he’s going to make it. His strength is depleting and he needs Sam. Sam tightens his fingers against Dean’s calloused knuckles and tries to suppress the stinging behind his eyes. He turns his head slowly to look at the face of his brother and that’s when a single tear streaks his cheek, falling gently onto the pillow underneath his head. Dean’s green eyes are crystallized by wet tears, but when he looks back at Sam his face loosens and he honestly smiles, not forced but gentle and clear. Sam has no choice but to mirror it, only when he does the wetness in the corners of his eyes thickens and threatens to spill. He feels Dean’s hand give a squeeze and little, reassuring jerks.   
He’s still the one doing the comforting.   
Sam swallows the lump in his throat and opens his mouth to speak. It’s hard to get the words out, his chest is tight and quivering on every exhale, his heart isn’t as strong as he wants it to be right now - it feels like it’s making bruises on his ribs every time it throbs.  
"We’re gonna be okay," he manages to say though his mouth is dry and hard to move.  
Dean’s eyes fall closed, the muscles in his face relax as he takes in Sam’s words and his strength, and Sam promises himself that they can do this.   
That _he_ can do this.   
For Dean.


End file.
